


Wild Nights

by bhaer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship/Love, M/M, Marijuana, Possibly Unrequited Love, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre won't admit he's in lust. Grantaire won't admit he's in love. They bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen with love from Emily Dickinson.
> 
> Mad_Max had the amazing idea that modern Grantaire would assume his feelings towards Enjolras are purely sexual.

He wakes up alone. The sun in shining and outside a couple yells at each other in Polish. His sweatshirt (well, not his, technically) has a few golden hairs lying bright against the muted navy. The bridge of his nose aches. Shouldn’t have fallen asleep in his glasses. Shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

It’s only the smell of hot bagels wafting through the apartment that convinces Combeferre that though sulking in bed all day seems appealing, it’s not the mature response. Instead he climbs out of bed and slumps to the kitchen where Enjolras is leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee and whistling.

“Good morning! I got poppyseed for you.” Of course Enjolras is cheerful. Enjolras is always invigorated after—

Combeferre grabs a bagel and bites in. It’s warm and his favorite flavor and he should be more grateful. “Thanks.”

“Don’t be! I’ve been looking over the budget and I think we have enough money for the high quality waterproof poster board.” Enjolras holds up his ipad for Combeferre to inspect with a smile. Combeferre glances at the assorted numbers and jittery red lines briefly. “Cool.”

“Are you still sleepy? Because I’m going to Joly’s in three secs and won’t be around to disturb you if you want to go back to bed.”

It seems less work to lie and just nod in response. “You were out for a while...” He whispers, biting the side of his mouth in a grimace that looks more cute than anything. Combeferre looks at his feet. He suddenly realizes his own lips are swollen.

“I’ve just had a lot of work lately,” Combeferre says.

Enjolras perks up. “Get some rest. Joly and I are trying to put the press release together but you can look it over any time this weekend. We’re going to get dinner at that Thai place on broadway. Should I grab you something?”

“I might get dinner with Grantaire,” Combeferre says without thinking because somehow he always finds himself in Grantaire’s orbit on these mornings. There’s a sort of thud as Enjolras drops his ipad on the granite counter.

“Oh.”

“Don’t make that face,” Combeferre chides. In response Enjolras twists his lips into a disturbing caricature of a smile. It’s enough make Combeferre chuckle and nearly choke on his bagel.

“Get some rest though.” Enjolras’ voice adopts a purring softness as he reaches across the table to grab Combeferre’s hands in his own. Combeferre, though  shocked and concerned this time he might actually choke on his bagel, instinctively moves towards Enjolras.

“I promise.” But the words are hollow on his tongue and Enjolras, who forgets to cut his hair and eat regular meals but who’s always perceptive towards his friends moods, frowns. He drops Combeferre’s hands and grabs his jacket from the counter.

“Rest,” Enjolras admonishes before closing the door behind him. A sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, Combeferre listens as the lock clicks shut. The cramped apartment feels too empty and even though the Polish couple is still screaming outside, too quiet.

He makes his way to the bathroom and in the cracked mirror, his reflection looks pale and unhappy. The evidence is clear. Soft earthy brown bruises bloom along his forearms and his lips are red. The golden hairs on his sweatshirt glimmer under the florescent light.

It doesn’t take long to strip and douse himself under the shower faucet. By the time he’s wrapped himself in a towel, shivering, real, piercing sadness has seeped in. He regrets washing the night off of himself.

_Just got a dub. Wanna split it?_

Grantaire’s response comes as Combeferre buttons up his shirt.

_yesssssss. on my way_

By the time Combeferre’s put his soiled sheets in the wash, there’s a steady pounding on the door. Despite nearly electrocuting himself installing the doorbell, knocking remains the preferred method of his friends making their presence known.

Grantaire stands in the doorway looking like an underfed subway rat. He has the same blinking, beady eyes and thin lips that, when he smiles, reveal crooked, pointing teeth. In no world could Grantaire be considered attractive but the ever-present layer of grease in his black curls and the purple bags under his eyes don’t help much.

“Long night?” Combeferre asks by way of introduction. Grantaire’s already made himself at home, slumped on the couch and biting his jagged fingernails.

“You wouldn’t believe. The Eagle and I took that limpid sad sack Pontmercy out and he, as predicted, moped through a thoroughly appetizing array and then insisted on walking home in the rain like a fucking romance hero. Except with bigger nostrils. Have you ever noticed the kid has enormous nostrils? They’re like black holes of snot. Can’t get too close to his nose. I’ll be sucked into his orbit. Can you imagine following Pontmercy around all day?” Grantaire shudders dramatically. “Watching him wank to his angelic Ursula? Oh, and Irma called me a prick last night. Can you believe it? When I go out of my way to get my large nostril-ed sort-of friend laid. She was just embarrassed to be seen dancing with me.”

Combeferre can understand Irma’s disdain. Grantaire’s jittery; his eyes moving erratically in his skull and his fingers tapping out an arrhythmic tune on his caved-in stomach. He must have been high out of his mind at the club and apparently has not yet come down. Combeferre rethinks the weed. He’s not a doctor yet but something in his gut tells him not to add more drugs to the mix.

“Wild night though. Like the poem. No one, unfortunately, moored in me but there’s always hope. I didn’t even really want any. Had to support Pontmercy. Who sold to you anyway? I thought you were all opposed to Babet’s free grown shit because of the whole Cabuc drama. Blah blah blah. Who has time to be moral about drugs? You apparently.”

Gently pulling Grantaire’s legs down to make himself room on the couch, Combeferre shrugs. Grantaire’s verbosity, usually frustrating, provides a perfect hum of background noise to distract him from his own thoughts.

“Prouvaire knew someone. I haven’t tried it yet but it looks good.” He pulls the tin foil package out of the jumbled coffee table drawer. Grantaire snatches a bent _TV Guide_.

“Shit, do you know when the new season of _New Girl_ starts? That’s my shit. Fucking Nick Miller. Fucking role model. Except he’s like... ten thousand on the hotness scale so of course he fucking gets Zooey Deschanel. Unfair.” Grantaire flips through the magazine, tongue pursed between his lips. Combeferre shrugs again.

“Do you want to smoke still? You seem...” He searches for the right phrase. “Good enough without.” There’s a cackling, rough laughter.

“Fuck yes I want to smoke if you’re still offering. I need something to cool my nerves. Still pretty hyped up on life and clubbing and Pontmercy’s miserable excuse for an existence. Not that mine’s much better but at least my nostrils are normal sized. Getting called a prick fucks you up. You know? Like you start thinking, am I a prick? People think I’m like, the ultimate hipster dude but they are so wrong. I’m actually a prick.”

Pausing in measuring finger fulls of green, Combeferre nods. “You are.”

“Damn right. Do you have anything to drink? And don’t be a smartass and say like, water, because I know you have a fucking working tap and I know you know what I fucking want. It’s okay if you don’t but like, be honest and stuff,” Grantaire says loudly.

“In the fridge.”

He hears Grantaire shuffle to the kitchen. A can of Pabst is slammed down in front of him.

“One for me, one for you!” Grantaire says in a sing-song voice. “Speaking of nothing in particularly by the way, what happened to your mouth? Did you have a wild night, wild night?”

Combeferre feels his cheeks redden and instinctively raises a hand to his lips. “No,” he mumbles. “I spent the night in. Studying. You might have heard of it.”

The grotesque face lights up in understanding. Combeferre has accidently given himself away.

“So that’s why you’ve called me over, my comrade-in-unrequited-longing, my partner in potential pleasure, my friend in wishful frottage,” Grantaire drones as he pops the cap of his beer. Flustered, Combeferre drops a bud into the carpet.

“Fuck.”

“Oooh, it _was_ bad. Is there a reason you’re wearing a long sleeved shirt in June? Because I doubt it’s the same reason I am.”

“Why do you make everything so vulgar?” Combeferre snaps as he retrieves the bud. Grantaire’s features soften and he leans back slightly.

“My bad. All vulgarity and puns aside, was it really that bad? You might want to smoke soon, you look like you’re going to pop something. Seriously, you’re redder than Bahorel’s hair or, alternatively, that gross rash Joly gets when he eats shellfish. Have you ever seen it? Nasty. Never take that one out for oysters. He won’t appreciate your kindness one bit.”

The sickly sweet smell of smoke fills the room as Combeferre inhales from his pipe sharply. Grantaire’s right, he feels better immediately. After a long exhale, he too leans back into the couch.

“He doesn’t. He. I mean. Fuck.” It’s the best response to the situation he can give.

“What eloquence from our resident philosopher! Here we have erudition ruined by the erotic.” Grantaire holds the pipe in his shaking hands and seems to have trouble igniting the lighter.

“You make it sound like it’s about lust. It’s not about lust. Not for me at least.” Combeferre ignores the images in his mind; of the rabid animal inside him clawing its way into Enjolras’ mouth. To say the previous night was lust-free was a lie. Pure affection couldn’t have inspired the bites lining his forearms, nor the scratches decorating Enjolras’ chest.

Grantaire coughs out a plume of smoke. “It is for me. We can’t all be curates of the ideal.”

Combeferre persevered. “It can’t all be lust for you. That’s a lot to put up with just for sex.”

Something like fear lights up Grantaire’s glassy grey eyes. His cracked lips pull themselves into an uneasy frown and his constant trembling slows. He gently places the pipe down.

“I’m a fucking weirdo. _A prick_ , to quote the fucking perfect Irma. Don’t judge my messed up brain.” But he’s clearly scrambling, unhinged, his tremor suddenly faster than before. Combeferre watches and takes a long swig of beer.

“I guess it’s different for everyone,” Combeferre says after a moment. Grantaire looks as if he’s been slapped and then, realizing it isn’t an insult, relaxes almost imperceptibly.

“Feel free to take the weed and beer and hole up in your room in disgust, because I’m asking this not to be pervy but for reasons of brotherly comfort and sympathy etcetera, but was it actually... sex?”

“I don’t know. What do you define as sex?”

Grantaire snorts and drains his beer. “This isn’t a word puzzle, you fucking nerd. I’m not going to be like, well your dicks only touched for point five seconds, ergo, it was only foreplay, sorry try again next time. Did either of you cum? And like the famous Anne with an _e_ , I mean cum with a _u_. Take note.”

To remember that much of the night, to recall the feel of hot semen splayed across his stomach, the way Enjolras’ brow had wrinkled when he orgasmed... It was too personal even for Combeferre to think of, nevermind the degenerate leaving a cloud of dust in his wake like that character from _Peanuts_.

“That’s really not... Can we just drink in silence? Is that a thing people do?” Combeferre asks desperately.

“This isn’t the Wild West where we clean our guns in a decidedly non-sexual way to ease our decidedly unmasculine emotions. I never thought _you’d_ be the one to enforce traditional gender norms. Just because we are men doesn’t mean we can’t express our feelings. However, point taken. Let us retrieve the bottle of rum I know you keep under your bed and drink away our sorrows.”

“I have schoolwork,” Combeferre tersely replies.

Grantaire raises a single bushy eyebrow. “I thought you did school work last night.”

“Fine. I lied. I did... _stuff_ with my roommate and best friend who is incapable of holding any relationship not primarily friendship. I woke up this morning alone and now I can’t stop thinking about how I wish it was a regular thing but it won’t be and if I fuck it up it’ll all be my fault. So no, I didn’t do schoolwork. Happy?” It pours out of Combeferre before he can stop himself and then, realizing the gravity of his exclamation, he feels the blood drain from his cheeks. He can blame the beer or Jehan’s shitty weed but that, like so many things he tells himself, is a lie. The explosion had been brewing for some time and under Grantaire’s smug probing, it had burst.

But Grantaire doesn’t look smug anymore. He looks sad.

“It’s not your fault,” he says in a small voice. Combeferre looks at his feet. Outside, the Polish couple resumes their argument. Didn’t they have anywhere else to be? Couldn’t they do this somewhere else?

“It’s really wrong of us to talk about this,” Combeferre murmurs. “I shouldn’t have asked you over.” Grantaire looks crestfallen.

“I can go.”

“No, just... I don’t want to sexualize... I mean. Fuck.”

“Jesus, Denny. You’re allowed to have a boner. It doesn’t spoil your chaste love for Enjolras to also want to fuck him. You don’t suddenly become a pervert. This is gay rights one oh one. Get with the program.” Grantaire holds the pipe to his mouth.

“And you’re allowed to have feelings. Having a boner doesn’t mean you don’t also care.”

Combeferre knows immediately it was a mistake. Grantaire throws down the pipe, spilling the bud and runs an ink-stained hand through his hair.

“You know what, I have to go. I have to see a man about a dog. A cat, actually. Supposed to house-sit a cat. Friend of a friend. You know how it is. Do you? Do you like cats? I think you once said your sister has a cat. I fucking hate them myself but always good to do a favor. One good turn deserve another. Maybe I’ll get food out of it. Maybe not.” Grantaire’s shaking wildly now as he lumbers to the door.

“I’ll call you. We can hang out and grab Burger King. Is it you or Feuilly who likes Burger King? Was it Five Guys? I don’t fucking know. Remind me when I call you. My treat.”

The door slams shut and Combeferre, alone again, cleans up the mess.


End file.
